A New Thing

For I am about to do something new. See, I have already begun! Do you not see it? I will make a pathway through the wilderness. I will create rivers in the dry wasteland. (Isaiah 43:19)

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She is starting to become more real to me, this baby girl we are all waiting for.

We first heard of her months ago, before we knew she was a she. Back then she was a phone call, a story waiting to unfold, a mama’s hand who needed holding.

We fell in step beside her, committed to walking with her for as long as she needed or wanted us. We have learned her stories, started the process of making her family our family. A new kind of in-law relationship. We have broken bread at our table and stood together in worship. She has taken my hand in her hand and held it against her stomach to feel this girl, this daughter, kicking her hellos.

The day we found out the baby growing in her womb was a sweet girl, I wound my way through St. Paul area neighborhoods and looked over to see the sun sparkling off Lake Josephine. A bright blue sky Minnesota July day.

He has been so present, ever present, in this wait.

He makes water stream in the desert. He makes a way where there seems to be no way. For her. For us. For all of us.

Do you not see it?

 

Here We Grow Again

If the way to announce a pregnancy is to post a picture of a positive home pregnancy test, then is posting a picture of paperwork the way to make an adoption annoucement?

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Baby #2, we’re getting ready for you!

 

Motherhood Is Not The Cure

One of the things that surprised me after becoming a mother was that I thought that all of the pain and longing that I experienced during our wait and during our struggle with infertility would vanish overnight. And I was unpleasantly surprised to discover that’s not the case.

Don’t get me wrong, a lot of pain was smoothed over once I crossed that invisible line between woman and mother.

But sometimes it takes me by a little bit of a shock.

It’s little things. Like when I’m on what I think is a message board for moms about parenting and the questions revolve around birth or conception.

It’s little moments when I see women who have children the same age as Harry and they’re expecting their next baby and that little green monster comes back up and I think “Why is it so hard for us? Why is this disease so unfair?”

And I think again and again of the tornado. It does not seek you out maliciously or purposefully. It strikes at random. And you don’t know what that’s like and you can never know what it’s like until the tornado comes for you.

There are things that have softened in me though. I used to not understand why women who suffered from secondary infertility couldn’t at least satsified with the child that they did have.

But I know now when you have a longing in you for children—whether it’s for your first child or your third child or your fifth child—when that longing is placed in you, nothing can placate it.

There is no fix for it. No cure for it. Your other children’s purpose in your life or your love for them is not in any way reflected in that longing.

You can still long for children even when you have them.

That is something i only learned on this side of that line.

And as we start to plan for extending our family, a lot of the pains I had to go through before Harry came home, I’m having to address again. Things like jealously. And bitterness. Things that if I don’t keep them in check, I’ll allow to grow in me.

And the thing about jealously and bitterness is they’ll choke the joy right out of your life. I don’t ever want the joy that I feel every day over being Harry’s mom to be choked out by bitterness over what I didn’t get to experience.

I’ll never know first hand the miracle of birth. For someone like me who watches home birth videos for fun; who is captivated and amazed by birth, it’s hard.

And when Harry was small those things were easier, but now that we are here again—getting ready to wait, getting ready to wonder when it will be our turn—it’s hard again.

The reprieve that I had in that first year of his life was lifted and it was lifted in almost what feels like a second.

When Harry came home I made myself a silent promise that I was not going to even think about or ponder or consider growing our family until he was a year old. Because I knew, from knowing myself for 34 years at that point, that I simply could not entertain those thoughts or I would miss it. I would miss the joy and the wonder of his first year. And I waited so long to be his mom that I wasn’t going to allow that to happen.

And there it was, mid-November, he was a  year old and—zoom—all of it back. Suddenly. When were we going to have another baby? When was our family going to grow? What were we going to do?

And being infertile is life long. It’s always there. It’s always on my mind. I’m always thinking about it. But it’s in the same way that I am always aware that I’m female. I’m always aware of my height. Of my age. It’s just part of who I am. It’s not something that plagues me, it’s just something that I am. And I think that makes people uncomfortable sometimes. But you know, that’s okay.

The only thing that can comfort me—the only thing that can save me—is Jesus.

There is no cure for this other than Christ. He won’t suddenly make me fertile and He won’t suddenly give me more children just because I want them. But what He will do is He’ll fill the cracks in my heart. And He’ll fill the empty spaces in my life and He’ll fill the empty longing in my arms.

And if I trust Him to do those things— if I allow Him to do those things —He will do them. And not only will He do them, He will do them with great joy and with great joy that I’ve asked, because that’s what He wants to do for us. He wants to invade the cracks in our lives and fill them with His love, His comfort, His presence and His strength.

If you’re hurting and lonely, if your arms are heavy with emptiness, I have to promise you that if you will just call on Him, He will fill them. He will comfort you, and you will be able to stand in the middle of the tornado, winds swirling around you, and your feet will remain firmly planted on the ground.

 

Thoughts from the Summit

As it typically happens during a learning conference, a theme emerged for me the past two days at the Willow Creek Global Leadership Summit.

And for me, as it almost always is, that theme was children.

First, I heard Mayor Cory Booker say: stand up from the banquet prepared by those who went before you, metabolize your blessings and do something. Do something.

Then I heard Rev. Brenda McNeil talk about how the future of the church is a multi-nation, multi-ethnic, multi-racial. That Jesus instructed us to go beyond what we know into the unfamiliar and the unknown. She asked if we’re brave enough to ask God: what is breaking your heart? And then ask Him to break ours for the same.

I heard Pastor Steven Furtick say that before we even see the rain clouds, we need to be digging ditches. And that only God can make it rain. (From 2 Kings 3.) What I heard: Only God can send children. So I am to dig ditches: to prepare our hearts, our house and our pocketbook for when God sends us another child(ren).

This morning I was wrecked past words by a woman who reflected the image of Christ so clearly that people gave her a standing ovation before she even spoke a word. She, an upper class Egyptian, left her work as a professor at a university to minister to (and to mother) the poorest children in Cairo. “When I touch a child, I am touching Jesus,” she softly said. “When I talk to a child, I am listening to God’s heart beating.”

Everything in me broke.

Do I love my own child like that? When I look at Harry, do I see Jesus first?

And more than that: am I open to Him leading the building of our family, or am I going to be like Sarah, who laughed when God told her that she was to bear a child, and instead told her husband to bear a child with her servant?

Am I making my own plans, trying to control our futures, when His plans are so much greater?

And then I heard Erwin McManus say that there has never been an ordinary child born ever, but that many of us die ordinary. That our God-given dreams are beat out of us; tired out of us; stressed out of us.

The only consistent dream of my life was to be a mother. And I am now a mother, but my heart still beats for children. I don’t feel in any way “done” with one.

Psalm 113:9 says: “He settles the barren woman in her home, the happy mother of children.”

Of children, it says. I am claiming it.

I don’t know what the future of our family looks like; how it will grow or what it will look like. But I am resting in the promise that He does.

And the good works that He has started in us, He will see to completion.

 

Onesies and Promises

Two years ago, when we were still trying to get pregnant, I had to run into a Walgreen’s on my lunch break to buy a box of ovulation predictor kits. (Which can we talk about how criminally expensive those things are? I shudder to think of the amount of money I spent on things I ultimately peed on.)

While I was there, they had a stack of “clever sayings” onesies by the registers. I guess because we were still not even a year in, I was feeling optimistic, so I picked one up and bought it.

A few months later, when we found out that we were (briefly) pregnant, I folded it up and laid it on Aaron’s pillow. A little red onesie that read “My Dad Rocks.”

It seemed impossibly tiny to me at the time; what kind of little creature could even fit in it?

And though that sweet baby wasn’t meant for the here and now, another sweet baby found his way to us.

And it fits him perfectly.